I love a parade.

Actually, I don't. But it is a better title than "Mother's Day Eve".

What I love is being celebrated. Or more accurately, feeling appreciated. A year of changing and rinsing and washing and drying and stuffing diapers. A year of making meal after meal that is as big as many people make for a holiday, two or three times a day. I've bought and put away groceries, I've ironed shirts, I've matched socks, I've taught school till my voice was ragged. I've been to doctor appointments, music lessons, and dog poop collection excursions. I've labored and given birth. I've gotten up in the middle of the night and nursed and cleaned up poop, pee and vomit. I have worked hard for no money and very little appreciation. I deserve an ever-loving parade.

But I also have a mother. And my husband has a mother. And we are in Indiana celebrating our mothers. And while the week (roughly) between my birthday and Mother's Day, known at our house as the National Holiday, has been a great week of celebrating my existence, it was not a week of saying thanks. I still had to do all the same work, I just ate more chocolate. Birthdays are different than Mother's Day. Birthdays are about celebrating the birthday girl or boy. Mother's Day and Father's Day are about saying thank you for things you normally take for granted. Take a break, Mom. Put your feet up, Mom. Thanks, Mom.

Tomorrow, in celebration of Mother's Day, I will get up before I'm done sleeping, wake my children up and dress them quickly, snarf a breakfast of cereal and milk, and drive an hour and a half to meet up with my in-laws, where we will eat frozen pizza and pretend to be excited while my mother-in-law pretends to be surprised to see us, even though my father-in-law spilled the beans days ago. Then I will spend the rest of the day riding in the big van, listening to children watch the movie, ask to go to the bathroom, complain about where they are sitting and the placement of their siblings heads and be out-loud thirsty, hungry and especially uncomfortable.

[Bunny trail: my youngest son, sk12 (S is an initial, K is kid, 12 is the number of child I'm talking about) has, since birth had what I affectionately call strep butt. He had a rectal strep infection, something I didn't know existed, and was therefore miserable. He is now less miserable, but still doesn't like riding in the van - which has been the case for a number of my children. In fact, I am beginning to be suspicious that some of my non-van-happy kids are actually in the infant stages of carsickness.]

At any rate, youngest son cries for most of the 6 or so hour van trip, and on the way here, there were 1.5 hours construction, which I assume will be there on the way home as well. When we get home we will have a dozen crabby children, laundry to do and put away, and a large general mess.

I may, when we drive through McDonald's on the way home, get a special drink from the McCafe. Might even get an apple pie.

None of this sounds Mother's Day-ish to me. I don't want to sound ungrateful. My husband has been focused on appreciating me all week. Tomorrow is just a day. I hope our mothers feel loved and honored tomorrow. I hope they like the plant and homemade cards we give them. I hope to honor them. But honoring is complicated as an adult.

What does it mean to honor my mother and husband's mother at this phase of life? Does it mean making them happy? That hardly seems like something I should take responsibility for. Does it mean always doing what they want? What does it look like to honor your mother as a grownup? I suspect it requires a substantial reduction in the amount of eye-rolling I sometimes do. It probably means that when I have an issue with one of them that the enemy is rubbing my face in, I should choose to bless and forgive and not have a list, long or short, of pet peeves and grievances against one or the other of them. It probably means lifting them up in prayer whenever I think of them, especially negatively.

Like, for example, tomorrow, when I'm in the big van, listening to my children complain and eating my cold cheeseburger and drinking my lukewarm McLatte, all so that I could be with my mother this weekend and not surprise my husband's mother for Mother's Day. No parade after all.